Death Adder
by senor failboat
Summary: Saxton Hale and Helen the Administrator meet some odd amount of years before the game takes place, in the middle of a lull in the RED and BLU war. There's chemistry between them.
1. Chapter 1

Title: **Death Adder**  
Category: Games » Team Fortress 2  
Language: English, Rating: Fiction Rated: T  
Genre: Romance, General  
Pairing: Saxton Hale X Helen (Announcer)  
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.

* * *

N: I don't fucking know, man. I haven't written straight shit in a looong time, so I'm anxious, but... yeah, okay, whatever. Also, totally forgot to namefag on the chan. Oh well.

* * *

Upon first hearing the words, "I have a representative for—," Saxton had been annoyed, and cut his new assistant, Liam or whatever his name was, off — the time taken chit-chatting with little companies was time taken out of his strict re-education of the supposed revolutionaries in the parking lot of Mann Co. When he'd knocked the beret off the last Beat foolish enough to stick around (really, "I'm slipping in blood" was no excuse for staying behind), he'd grabbed the phone with a level of skepticism that was nothing to shake a stick at.

"Saxton Hale speaking," he'd boomed confidently, wanting to convey to whoever was on the other side that, yes, they were speaking to the man of Mann Co., and that yes, he was the kind of man you could trust, come Hell or high water, but that he was also Very Busy At The Moment.

The rough female voice that responded caught him so stomach-punchingly strong with surprise that he only caught her first name: Helen. Just as well; the surname didn't matter, and with a woman who sounded as fine as this one did, he would never have bothered with it even if he'd known it! All women were easier to woo if you kept up a level of familiarity, after all — Saxton would know.

"TF Industries?" Saxton had barked immediately after Helen had properly introduced herself. He frowned heavily at Lionel; why hadn't he _said_ it was TF Industries?

"Yes," she'd responded with the voice and tone of some sort of divine, reverse-Siren; a voice only a Real Man could appreciate.

They'd outlined a deal, a massive deal that, if Saxton was a Hippie or such, he would have questioned the morality of. As it was, he boomed with laughter. From what little Helen had divulged, TF Industries had one of the _manliest_, most _testosterone-fueled_ plans he'd ever heard of; a mindfuck of epic proportions that, if discovered, would have dire consequences... How exciting!

"So, Helen!" Saxton had switched the subject as soon as the basics of everything were laid out. "You sound like a woman capable of enjoying a good steak — how does tomorrow evening sound?"

Helen laughed; there came a scratchy, almost frog-like noise from the back of her throat that sent Saxton's blood rushing up, hot with lust and adrenaline. "If you can find me, Mr. Hale."

She'd hung up on him, and he'd decided that, with God as his full-bearded, voyeuristic witness, he would have her.

At precisely 3:30am the next morning, Saxton had burst from his bed in an explosion of energy, swiping up the plate of bison meat, ostrich eggs, and hashbrowns, all steaming hot and nearly overfilling the ceramic plate Mr. Bidwell had put them onto.

"Sir, you have—"

"NO TIME," Saxton had interrupted, ripping into the bison-meat steak with his teeth alone. "I've got to fly out to meet a dangerous woman, Bidwell! A snake hidden inside of a raven stuffed inside of a fox masquerading as a panther!"

"But sir—"

"**NO TIME**." With that, he'd poured the rest of his still-steaming breakfast directly into his throat, and run down the stairs two at a time. On the eighth-to-last step, he leapt; his feet landed jam into his boots, and he used the momentum to perform a front aerial out of the nearby window. One of the Beats from yesterday kindly cushioned his fall, and Saxton sprang up without hesitation, running full-fledge to his private jet.

"JERRY!"

The pilot (who slept in the jet on all weeknights, as part of his contract) had jumped, nearly spilling his coffee on himself. "Yes, Mr. Hale?"

"We're flying to America as of right now."

"What—"

"HURRY UP, MAN; I _WON'T_ KEEP A LADY WAITING ANY LONGER THAN STRICTLY NECESSARY."

He had arrived in Washington at 7:42pm. Though that was approximately one hour sooner than any commercial flight would have arrived, Saxton was still bothered; he should have chosen a speedier way to deal with the rogue geese who had stormed his jet.

Saxton had pushed the entirety of his muscled, glorious male body through the front doors of the TF Industries building, deceptively innocuous in appearance, but equipped (in large part by his own company and by Spytech Industries, LLC.) with state-of-the-art defense (and offense, but that wasn't for the public to know, of course).

"Mr. Hale," that deliciously hoarse voice had come out of nowhere, like a Death Adder springing up just as it was trod upon.

Saxton had turned to look directly at her, and the force of her beauty was like a knee to the solar plexus — her sharp, Feldgrau suit, grey tights, talon-like nails, and put-up hair; the dark allure of her make-up, all in militaristic shades of green; her fierce gaze and perfect posture... She was a damn fine woman. The curves on her were dangerous, and made the sharp angles on her many times more obvious and appealing. He could imagine her riding him, the way her legs would clench, the raw scratches she would litter his back with—

"Call me Saxton."

"All right, _Saxton_." Helen had exhaled his name like a puff of cigarette smoke inhaled too quickly. "Where, exactly, are we going?"

Saxton was at her side in three strides, his large form shadowing her as he took her arm. "Where _aren't_ we going?"

* * *

N: Durp.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: **Death Adder**  
Rating: Fiction Rated: T  
Pairing: Saxton Hale X Helen (Announcer)  
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.

* * *

S: Chapter two, oh yeah. I'm considering bringing this into Sexy Times in part four(ish), but I'm not entirely sure yet, especially considering how long it's been since I wrote straight... well, anything. I'll figure it out, hopefully.

* * *

Saxton had kept Helen's dainty, bony little arm in his own and led her through the door, laughing loudly when she coolly informed him that she could find the way herself.

"Oh, Helen," he had said, patting her hand, "Helen, Helen, _Helen_... I'm sure you're quite capable of finding the way out the door, but I highly doubt you could find your way to my private jet!"

Helen had arched an elegant eyebrow, the sharp clack of her high heels on the sidewalk accentuating the sharpness of her look. "You mean the private jet parked directly in front of us, blocking traffic?"

Jerry had waved down from his seat in the cockpit upon spotting them, and Saxton had grinned. "Ah! So it is!" He then made a mental note to schedule an hour of crocodile wrestling the next Saturday and invite Jerry along as he escorted Helen to the jet, unconsciously flexing as they (or perhaps just the jet) drew stares from all the passersby.

"Saxton," Helen's voice had drifted up, like the scent of burnt batter drifts up from waffle irons, "are we taking your jet?"

"Why wouldn't we?" Saxton had asked, smiling winsomely as he placed a foot on the first step.

"The man in front of you seems to have a problem with it, for one thing."

Saxton had looked up and immediately grit his teeth, but forced himself to relax — he didn't want to look so out of sorts in front of Helen; she was a wolf in a shark's skin wearing steel-toed boots.

"Excuse me one moment, please," he'd said, patting her arm. She'd crossed her arms and stood comfortably, a hip cocked out to one side, and taken out a sleek cigarette case from her suit pocket. After lighting a slim cigarette (typical of a woman, but at least it wasn't one of the filtered ones), she'd bared her teeth in what was almost a smile. Saxton had taken that as permission enough and looked back at his visitor, who had been trying, and failing, to get his goat the entire time he'd been watching Helen.

"Do you damned Beats really have to take things this far?" Saxton had demanded, glaring disapprovingly at the skinny 'poet' in front of him. "I'm with a lady, for all's sake!"

"You killed my best friend," the Beat had screamed at him, voice cracking like a prepubescent boy's. "And then you _jumped_ onto my _back_ as I was _crying over his body_!"

"My boy, I'm going to tell you three things right now: First and foremost, REAL MEN DON'T CRY OVER SILLY THINGS LIKE THAT. Secondly, I'VE NEVER KILLED ANYBODY BUT WHEN I WAS IN SERVICE WITH THE MILITARY; YOU CAN TAKE UP ANY DISPUTES YOU HAVE WITH THAT STATEMENT TO MY LAWYERS. And thirdly—" Saxton had stalked forward, snorted when he noticed the boy's knee knocking, and clapped him hard on the shoulder "—CAN'T YOU SEE I'M WITH A LADY?"

And then he had tossed him off the side of the walkway.

"My spine!"

"You'll live," Saxton had said dismissively before turning back to Helen. "Terribly sorry about that unplanned interruption," he'd said with all the charm of a dingo offering to rock a harried mother's baby, "but you know how these things are."

Helen had laughed, flicking her cigarette over the side of the walkway. ("My _eye_!") "Yes, I know all about that sort of thing, of course... I deal with it at least four times a year."

"Only four?" Saxton had asked as he'd taken up her arm again, his skin tingling as she pressed down on it with her sharp nails. "Good management."

Helen had scoffed, inspecting one of the nails on her other hand. "Four is five too many, in my opinion. People should be coming to _thank_ TF Industries for all it's done, not coming in to complain about management's flubs."

Saxton's moustache had wiggled with interest. "I take it you're looking to move up and fix things, then." It hadn't been a question, and Helen hadn't played under any false pretenses.

"Yes. Yes, I do." At that, she'd scratched him lightly with her nails as she pulled her arm easily from his grip. "You can expect to see me on top very, _very_ soon."

----

Saxton had told Jerry to fly them to the nearest steakhouse.

"Mr. Hale, the nearest steakhouse is literally across the street—"

"Fly us across the street, then!" Saxton had commanded. "And don't grumble about it," he'd added, making a mental note to plan a hiking trip for his staff the next weekend, and if Jerry felt too tired after their crocodile wrestling matches together, well, he'd just have to complain to Mr. Bidwell — and Bidwell didn't take any bullshit, Saxton knew. It had been a requirement for his employment, along with the ability to incapacitate a man with just one hand and the ability to bake a soufflé.

So Jerry had flown forward, made a turn, and flown back down, closer to the opposite side of the street. During all of that, Saxton had complimented Helen on everything from her outfit to her posture, and Helen had tossed him back barbed 'compliments' on his business, his accent, and his exhibitionist tendencies.

"I must admit, Saxton," Helen had said as they got off the plane, "I would expect someone like you to have more _chest_ hair."

Saxton had flashed his perfectly aligned, perfectly white teeth at Helen. "Oh, my dear, this is a story best told by candlelight." He led her past the maître d' confidently, passing by several fruity looking men and women in excessive suits and gowns that, unlike Helen's professional attire, would be _completely_ impossible to adapt into a sudden battle against crazed 'revolutionaries.'

The maître d' had followed them, recognizing, no doubt, Saxton's position as Alpha Male. (In reality, he'd noticed Helen's "TF Industries" ID card sticking slightly out of her suit pocket.)

Saxton had ordered his steak confidently, almost grandiosely: "The Best Steak You've Got, sir, as well as the Château Haut-Brion Pessac."

Helen had simply ordered the filet mignon, reaching out to sip her ice water the moment one of the waiters brought it to their table.

"Well, there's a candle now, but—" she'd brought her lighter out from her pocket and flicked it on, putting it to the untouched wick "—it was unlit." Helen had slipped it back into her suit and grinned like a canary who had scraped the cat's eyes out. "Your story, Saxton?"

"I think it's one you'll like," he had said, the light dancing playfully on his massive pectorals as he leaned forward. "Y'see, it all happened a few days ago, when I was closing a deal in Argentina..."

* * *

S: I cut this off earlier than I had originally intended because something happened while I was writing it. I typically write my submissions on chans and such in the actual boxes, rather than in separate documents on my computer, so... yeah. I guess that explains a couple of things? Maybe? I don't know. I'm off to bed.


End file.
